


Missing You is a Slow Burn

by marmvg



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4595949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmvg/pseuds/marmvg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Bellarke prompts from Tumblr. Canon and AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can I Say Goodbye?

**Author's Note:**

> clvrkegrffins: AU where it was Bellamy that Clarke killed to settle the score with the Grounders, not Finn :-)

It doesn't matter how many Grounders testify against Finn. It doesn't matter how many of them witnessed him slaughter eighteen of their people.

_Bellamy_ took the blame and the Commander wants _his_ life.

So it's not Finn Collins tied to a flank of wood. It's not the boy who wasted a month of oxygen, who floated into Clarke's life on the dropship, who she let run his fingers along her shell of a heart, who broke it. It's not him.

It's Bellamy. Bellamy Blake: failed assassin, rebel king. Her partner. Her friend. Her other half.

Clarke barely registers the moving of her feet as she makes her way to Raven. She's glaring through the fence at the army of Grounders who are preparing to torture their friend, clutching tightly onto Finn's hand. Bile rises in Clarke's throat as a wave of envy runs through her. After tonight, she won't have Bellamy the way Raven and Finn have each other ever again.

“I need your knife,” Clarke announces.

Raven gives her a once over, apprehension drawn across her face. “There's nothing you can do, Clarke.”

“There is,” Clarke counters. She sticks her hand out, not taking 'no' for an answer. “Please, Raven.”

Raven battles with herself, hesitating before she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her blade. Clarke takes it and slides it up her sleeve. She meets Finn's remorseful eyes, then she turns on her heel to leave before he can do something she'll hate him for, like apologize.

Bellamy's life is worth more than “I'm sorry.”

The ten minutes it takes to walk to the Grounder camp feels unreal, like a dream, like a nightmare. Clarke feels galaxies away as she fingers the knife in her sleeve. Not even the sharp edge cutting into her skin keeps her rooted to reality.

Approaching the Commander, the words which tumble from her mouth feel thick and foreign on her tongue. “Can I say goodbye?”

There's a beat of silence. Clarke wonders if Lexa has any idea what she's about to do. She nods her assent, and Clarke runs as fast as she can towards Bellamy, one last time.

He doesn't seem surprised to see her, only angry. She grabs his face in her hands and forces him to look her in the eye, to figure out what she plans to do, to understand why.

“Clarke,” he chokes out. She feels his jaw tick against her fingers. “What are you doing?”

Clarke pulls her hand back, just enough for Bellamy to see the glint of steel poking out of her sleeve. He closes his eyes. He expels a long, heavy breathe from his lungs. Clarke can't stop the sob which wracks her body when he turns his head and places a hard kiss to her hand.

“They'll kill you,” he whispers into her palm.

She turns his head so he's looking at her and shakes her own. “They already have.”

Bellamy stares at her, hard, longingly, sorrowful, before steeling himself and pressing onward. “Take care of Octavia for me,” he orders. “Take care of all of them. You hear me, Clarke? You keep doing that for me.”

She nods her head vigorously, streams of tears making paths through the dirt on her face.

“They need you. None of this will work without you,” Bellamy says.

Clarke wants to remind him they need _him_ too. _She_ needs him. She wants to remind him he's the reason they all survived and she wants him to know he's the one who helped her live again.

Clarke wants to admit she can't do this without him. But, the truth is, she can. She just doesn't want to.

One hand snakes into his hair, pulling him down to her as she rises on her tiptoes and captures his bottom lip between hers. He kisses her back softly, tearfully, not at all the way she imagined he would the few times she's allowed herself to dream. Clarke slips Raven's knife from her sleeve. She presses it into Bellamy's abdomen until she feels his body sulk against her.

When she break their kiss, he buries his face into the crook of her neck with the last bit of energy he has. “Thanks, Clarke.”

She stumbles away from him, head spinning, lungs aching, and collapses to ground before him.

Clarke hears Octavia's screams in the distance.

They're almost drowned out by the howl of her soul splitting in two.

Almost.

 


	2. Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said:  
> clarke and bellamy as the maid of honor and the best man at abby and kane's wedding

Abby is wearing a dress. An honest to God dress. It falls just below her knees, the sleeves are frayed, and it’s yellow while it should probably be white, but it’s a dress – something Clarke hasn’t seen since her time in Mount Weather.

Which, coincidentally, is where Abby found most of the pieces to her outfit.

She’d suggested Clarke wear one of the nicer dresses they salvaged from the Mountain as well, being Abby’s Maid of Honor, but Clarke insisted on wearing her jeans and a nice flowing top she’d found in a bunker during a raid. It didn’t smell like death as much.

Similarly, Bellamy is wearing jeans too, as well as his favorite t-shirt which he washed extra well just for the wedding. Abby offered to wash Lovejoy’s guard uniform for him so, as Kane’s Best Man, he’d look equally nice, but Bellamy declined. He doesn’t make it a habit to wear dead men’s clothes. 

Kane doesn’t seem to care. Abby is only slightly disappointed.

Though, once Clarke’s mother has planted the seed of a sapling in the ground and vowed herself to Marcus Kane, officially wed, she mostly forgets Clarke’s and Bellamy’s unwillingness to dress for the occasion. Abby is swept up in the reception of her wedding, drinking and dancing and eating food the Arkers haven’t perfected cooking just yet.

Clarke is moving to a silly song with Kane, her hand clasped in his, laughing when he twirls her into a drunken Jasper and Monty. When she spins back, she catches Bellamy’s eye a few feet away, smiling at him over her step-father’s shoulder. Bellamy is dancing awkwardly with Abby, listening painfully to whatever she is saying to him.

“Excuse me, Marcus,” Clarke says. She pats Kane on the chest and takes a step back. “I have to go save your Best Man from your wife.”

Kane laughs. “Then who’s going to save me when  _I_  have to dance with her?” he teases.

“No one,” Clarke tells him. “I think that’s what happens once you’re married.”

He shoos her away, smiling bashfully, and Clarke squeezes his hand before making her way to her mother and her friend. She taps the former on the shoulder and asks, “Mind if I cut in?”

Abby grins at her with watery eyes. She pushes fat tears away with the palms of her hands. “Of course,” she says. “He’s all yours.”

The sight of her mom smiling and crying and dancing with  _Bellamy_  has thrown Clarke off. She watches Abby’s back, worried, until Bellamy grabs her waist, startling her back to reality. He lifts her hand in his and begins to sway.

“What did you do to my mom?” Clarke asks.

Bellamy groans. He conks his forehead against her scalp. “Can we not talk about it?”

“ _No_. You made my mom cry!” Clarke laughs into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah. Well. She made me uncomfortable.”

They bump into another couple, almost losing their balance, and Bellamy tugs Clarke closer to him, his arm winding across her back.

“ _Teeell_  me,” Clarke whines. “Please? I’m the Maid of Honor. I have the right to know.”

Bellamy snorts into her hair. “I’m the Best Man. I have the right not to tell you.”

“But you’re going to.”

“Whatever.”

Clarke leans her head against his shoulder. “I’m waiting.”

She feels Bellamy’s chest rise against her own, feels him expel a hot gust of air against the back of her neck. “I just – I told her I was happy for her.”

Clarke presses a smile into his sleeve. “How  _sweet_ ,” she drawls.

“I was just being nice,” Bellamy grumbles. “But she – I don’t know, she got all sappy and…nice? Hormones or something.”

“She’s married, Bellamy, not pregnant.”

“Not yet,” he counters.

“ _Gross_.”

“Anyway,” Bellamy continues, “she said she was happy too. Which, yeah. It’s her wedding day. I’d hope so. But when I told her that she said…” He tapers off, quickly tensing against Clarke. She’s overly aware of his adam’s apple bobbing next to her head and of the sound from his throat as he gulps down words.

Clarke thinks she knows what her mother said. She debates whether or not she wants to hear it herself. She sucks in a shaky breath. “She said?”

Bellamy’s arm tightens around her waist. “She said she’s happy because of Kane, but she’s mostly happy because  _you’re_ finally happy, and you’re happy because – because  _we_  make each other happy.” His answer tumbles from his mouth in a rush of jumbled words which Clarke can only make sense of once he’s finished speaking.

She doesn’t know how to respond. Clarke is genuinely surprised her mother feels that way, that she  _vocalized_  those feelings, and to Bellamy of all people. Bellamy, who she can barely tolerate on a good day but puts up with because he makes Clarke smile.

Abby isn’t wrong, of course. Bellamy  _does_  make Clarke happy. The happiest. She’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual. He’s mean and commanding and grumpy and she’s snarky and bossy and still a bit of an entitled brat, but they accept one another, understand one another, care for one another more than anyone else possibly could.

Bellamy is Clarke’s best friend. She loves him.

She  _loves_  him.

Clarke pulls her hand from Bellamy’s, lifting her arms and wrapping them around his neck. He folds his arms across her back and holds her to him, tight. Amidst the dancing couples, they anchor themselves together and savor their rare, steady, unwavering embrace.

“She’s not wrong,” Clarke mumbles into his neck.

Bellamy hums against her. “She also asked when we’re getting married.”

Clarke snickers. “What did you say?”

“I told her after she had the baby.”

Bellamy manages to choke out an “ow!” through his laughter when Clarke whacks him on the back.

“ _Gross_.”


	3. Driving Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kay-emm-gee asked: bellarke + sharing seats?

Here’s the thing.

After Clarke pulls the kill switch, there are hundreds of their people who need to be transported from Polis to Arkadia. 

But there’s only one rover to take them.

About half travel back on foot, thank God. But the half that can’t, Bellamy piles into the car and takes turns driving home. The rides are long, grueling, and by the time he returns to Polis for the last of the Arkadians, he’s wasted two whole days behind a steering wheel. He never wants to put his foot on a pedal again.

He knows he’s going to anyway.

“Nah, man,” Miller says, holding the driver’s side door before Bellamy can slam it shut. “You’ve been taking the wheel for days. I got this one.”

Bellamy frowns at him. It’s not that he _wants_ to drive anymore. He’s exhausted, and frustrated, and more than slightly distracted by the oncoming second apocalypse, but he feels a sense of responsibility for these people. He can’t bandage them up like Clarke or Abby, or offer them comfort like Kane, but he can do this. He can take them home.

“It’s fine,” Bellamy says. He goes to close the door again. Miller still resists.

“Clarke isn’t sitting up front,” he says.

Bellamy hesitates, then looks to his right where, sure enough, a mother is already sitting in the passenger seat, cradling her boy on her lap. He doesn’t mind, but he was looking forward to spending this last ride with Clarke by his side, in the corner of his eye, _there_.

It’s a small disappointment that she’s not, but Bellamy doesn’t budge. “Get in the back, Miller.”

“Dude, you look like you’re about to pass out,” his friend argues. “I’m not gonna have you falling asleep on the road and killing all the people we just saved.”

Well. Bellamy can’t argue with that.

Grumbling, he forfeits his seat to Miller, then drags his feet to the rear of the rover where his friends are packing in like sardines. Clarke stands just outside, helping Bryan, then Kane, then Abby climb in. She and Bellamy wait for Jackson to follow, to take the last remaining seat on one of the benches, but he doesn’t move.

“You two take it,” he says. “You deserve it.”

Bellamy glances at Clarke, unstirred, and finds she’s already looking at him the same way. They turn back to Jackson.

“There’s space on the floor for us,” Clarke tells him. “We’re fine, Jackson. You’ve been through a lot. Take a seat. Rest.”

Jackson shakes his head no but still climbs into the rover. Bellamy is grateful he isn’t putting up a fight until Jackson lowers himself to the cool metal ground and looks up at them.

“Please,” he says. His stare is wide, pleading, sorry. Bellamy recognizes the eyes of a man that is going to spend the rest of his life trying to make up for what he’s done. He sees them everyday.

This time, the look Bellamy and Clarke share is broken, resigned. Clarke gets in with a furrow between her brow, Bellamy offering her his hand for leverage before he moves in behind her.

Bellamy gives Jackson an appreciative smile. It’s only a small tug at the corner of his lips, but it feels out of place here, now, on him. “Thank you.”

He slams the door shut then, and Miller revs the engine to life. The car begins to move, jostling the passengers against each other, and it’s only then that Bellamy realizes Jackson has actually done him and Clarke a disservice in giving them his seat. It might have been a roomy spot for one person, but for two? It’s a tight fit.

Not that Bellamy is opposed to Clarke’s body pressing up against his own. It does hurt him to see her fold in on herself though, shoulders pushed uncomfortably forward and legs squished together airtight. It also hurts that half of his ass is falling off the edge of the bench, and he has to stick his leg out at an odd angle to stop himself from sliding to the floor.

He turns toward Clarke to gauge her reaction of their less than ideal seating arrangement. Her eyes are closed, head thrown back against the wall, face skyward. Her skull rolls back and forth with the movement of the rover.

“Clarke.” Bellamy nudges her with his elbow. “Your neck is going to kill you if you stretch it like that.”

She sighs through her nose, then opens her eyes to fix them on him. Her gaze is piercing. “I’m tired,” is all she says.

Bellamy understands. He feels the same. It’s not the kind of tired that comes from overexertion and sleeplessness, though both play a part in their exhaustion. It’s the kind of tired that stems from anxiety, too much of it, and fear and fighting and desperation. It’s the fatigue that seeps into your bones, carves your chest hollow, leaves you empty and hopeless and feeling alone.

But they’re not alone.

“Lean on me.” His voice is a murmur, rumbled against her ear. Bellamy sees Clarke swallow when he pulls away. She doesn’t waste time adjusting herself to rest her head on his shoulder. He raises his arm to wrap around her, uncertainly at first, and tugs her closer into his side. She buries her nose into his jacket. He presses his mouth into her hair. When she twines her fingers through his free hand, he can feel his heart beat in his chest again. Like this, Bellamy is just a little more at peace, a little more _awake_. Though he finds that sleep comes easy with Clarke molded perfectly into his side.

Against all reason, Bellamy realizes he feels lucky. Because home is not a bumpy ride away for him. Home is here, in his arms, slowly finding solace.


	4. darkness brings evil things, oh, the reckoning begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as Octavia is concerned, anyone in a seat of power held Pike’s hand and pulled the trigger with him. Now, thanks to Echo, she has a veiled excuse to kill them.
> 
> If Clarke Griffin happens to be one of the people she’s been contracted to murder, well. That’s tough.

Maybe it seems like there’s no rhyme or reason to what Octavia is doing, but there is. The rhyme is this: slash the throats, slice the veins, stab the hearts of those who do the same. Here’s the reason: Lincoln.

Octavia doesn’t particularly care why Echo approached her after A.L.I.E. was defeated.

_To eliminate the leaders of the Thirteen Clans and help King Roan rise to power, Heda once and for all._

Whatever.

_To kill Wanheda, take her power, use it to annihilate them._

Again, Octavia could _not_ care less.

Still, she agrees to Echo’s proposition.

Wiping out your competitors, taking power, putting people in charge – it’s all politics. Possibly, if things were different, Octavia would have a vested interest in the state of the grounders and her people. As it is, she’s interested in one thing only: bringing vengeance upon anyone responsible, directly or indirectly, for the death of Lincoln.

The death of her soul.

And as far as Octavia is concerned, anyone in a seat of power held Pike’s hand and pulled the trigger with him. Now, thanks to Echo, she has a veiled excuse to kill them.

If Clarke Griffin happens to be one of the people she’s been contracted to murder, well. That’s tough.

Has it occurred to Octavia that Clarke tried helping her and the resistance take down Pike? Yeah. That Clarke has saved Octavia and their friends and their entire people countless time? Yeah. Has it also occurred to Octavia that Clarke abandoned them all in a heartbeat and only came back after she killed her girlfriend? That she’s committed genocide? That she left people Octavia cared about to die? _Yeah_.

When it comes down to it, killing Clarke will be one of the easiest things Octavia ever does. There’s no doubt in her mind about it. Really.

Plus, it will be nice, won’t it, to rip the heart right out of Bellamy’s chest? To take away the other half of him, just like he did to her?

She reaches Arkadia at night.

Clarke’s quarters are smaller than she expected. Her room in Polis was extravagant, lavish for a home built from rubble. Octavia can only assume her bedroom on the Ark was decent too. Here though, on the ground, in Arkadia, Clarke’s shabby tent from the dropship was probably nicer than the room she has now. Clarke’s cot takes up every inch of the room, not leaving any space on the sides so that she has to climb atop it from the foot of her bed. There are no windows, no vents, no dresser for clothes. The room itself was quite possibly a walk-in closet when they were in space.

Knowing Clarke is staying in such undesirable conditions should bring a smile to Octavia’s face, but all it does is make her stomach churn with anger. Of course the princess is living modestly. What a fucking a _martyr_.

It takes less than a second for Octavia to realize she has no place to hide, though. The surprise attack she planned would be thrown out the window, if there were one. If Octavia were to kill Clarke now, it would have to be as soon as she stepped through the door, over her threshold, in clear sight of whoever stood in the hallway.

Would Octavia care if everyone knows she killed Clarke Griffin? Not really. Actually, she wants them to know, especially her brother. But it _would_ hinder her plans of killing every other person on her hit-list, so she’ll refrain. For now.

Octavia is just about to make her exit when she hears two voices outside.

“You can’t sleep in here, Clarke. Seriously.” It’s Bellamy.

“I already have,” Clarke replies. “I can and I will.”

“Switch with me,” Bellamy insists. Octavia can tell by the irritation dripping from his voice that he’s genuinely distressed by Clarke’s sleeping arrangements.

Clarke huffs. “No.”

Eyes wide, Octavia’s heart kicks into overdrive as the doorknob begins to turn.

“This isn’t even a room,” says Bellamy. The doorknob stops moving. “It’s a walk-in closet.”

That’s exactly what Octavia thought. She glares at the door.

“Is a walk-in closet not considered a room?” argues Clarke.

“No, it isn’t.”

“I’m fine, Bellamy.”

“Clarke.” Bellamy’s voice has an edge to it now. He’s firm. “You’re cramped in there. There’s a draft. The couple next door is _loud_ the entire night. You can’t sleep.”

Octavia wonders how Bellamy knows what Clarke’s bedroom is like overnight but quickly decides she doesn’t care. The state of their relationship has always been – and probably always will be – a mystery to her. All she knows for sure is that Bellamy’s heart is Clarke’s. That’s all the information she needs to motivate her.

“I can’t sleep because the _world_ is ending, Bellamy, not because my neighbors don’t know how to stifle their moans.”

The doorknob starts to turn again. Octavia stumbles backwards.

“Stay in my room,” Bellamy practically yells. “With me.” His tone is softer. “Stay with me.”

There’s silence at that, and Octavia isn’t sure if they’ve pitched their voices lower or if Clarke simply isn’t sure what to say. Octavia collapses at the foot of her bed.

Her heart, in spite of itself, swells with emotion. It’s not anger or blind hatred or bitterness she feels either; it’s sad, a little. A bit regretful. Mostly, it feels light, like it’s floating away.

She remembers the anxieties that come with caring for someone more than you care for yourself, care for anyone else. She remembers clinging to someone for big things and silly things and everything in between. She remembers wanting someone, one someone, at your side always, for the rest of your numbered days. She remembers what it’s like to love this way.

And isn’t that why Octavia is killing Clarke in the first place? To take this love away from them? To make Bellamy feel what she feels every waking moment? Isn’t that why? Isn’t it?

Frustrated and confused, Octavia presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, smudging her warpaint.

She doesn’t know what she believes anymore.

On the other side of the door, Clarke finally speaks. “Just let me get my sketchpad.”

Even as the door opens, Octavia doesn’t bother standing up from where she’s perched on Clarke’s cot. Clarke doesn’t hide her surprise to see her, taking a step back into Bellamy’s chest.

Octavia swipes futilely at her eyes. The backs of her hands come away black.

From over Clarke’s shoulder, Bellamy exhales her name. “O...”

Octavia ignores him. “I need a place to crash,” she lies. She feels the guilt and dishonesty twist in her gut. “So I came here.”

Disbelief fills Clarke’s voice. She hasn’t stepped away from Bellamy. “Here?”

“Nowhere else to go.” The truth of it washes over her in one cold, harsh wave.

“Of course you can stay here,” Clarke tells her. She glances at Bellamy whose eyes are cast down at the floor. “Actually, I’m uh – you can have the room to yourself tonight. I won’t be here.”

Unable to meet her eyes, Octavia nods. Clarke mimics her, then steps into the room to reach under her bed. The sketchpad she pulls from underneath is covered with sketches of herbs and oaks and the sky, and right in the center, as though shielded by it all, Octavia catches a glimpse of her brother. His eyes are bright, smile small, face freckled with stars. Clarke holds the pad tight to her chest.

“Goodnight, Octavia,” she says. Clarke doesn’t wait for a response before she leaves. Bellamy hesitates in the doorway though, casting one final look at Octavia before closing the door.

Heart breaking all over again, she scoots up the cot. She lays down, staring at the metal ceiling, and forces herself to breathe.

She thinks of Lincoln, like she always, always, always does. Their love is still the lifeblood pumping through her veins.

Then Octavia thinks of Bellamy and she thinks of Clarke. She thinks of the two of them, together. And, though she hates to, she thinks of how much she loves both of them, more than any resentment she feels.

It’s the worst realization she could possibly have.

Because she was never going to kill Clarke, was she? Octavia isn’t sure _what_ she was going to do. But at the end of the day, Clarke is her family, almost as much Bellamy, and she would never do to them what they have done to her. She could never take them away from each other. She could never inflict the pain that’s become her onto people she hates with every fiber of her being to love.

Octavia wants to scream until her lungs give out.

Instead, she thinks of Clarke’s drawing of Bellamy. She remembers another drawing, in a leather notebook, of a girl fresh from space and chasing butterflies, a lifetime ago.


	5. Slipping Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke watching as Bellamy lay dying. She's tried everything, yet nothing's working

Voices weave in and out of with Bellamy’s consciousness: Abby’s clinical orders flash in his head in bursts of light; Jackson’s words of reassurance thread through his brain; in waves of dread, Kane chokes out his name and pleads Abby’s until she demands someone take him away.

Always, the entire time, there is Clarke’s voice too. Bellamy can’t hear it through the rushing in his ears, but he feels her presence stronger than his own aching bones. It conjures every word he’s ever heard her say, a sweet melody of need and trust and forgiveness and love. She’s the only lullaby he remembers anymore.

Abby’s voice is an ocean away, fading with the daylight when Bellamy hears her say “Clarke.”

Closer, louder, Clarke simply says “no.”

“We’ve done everything we can do,” Abby tells her. “He’s lost too much blood.”

“I said _NO_ ,” Clarke snaps.

Bellamy would smile at her stubbornness if he had the energy to move his lips.

“There is nothing more we can do.”

Everything is quiet, then. No talking, no banging of medical equipment, no insects chirping in the woods around them. Just silence. Silence cold and long and forever.

The dots spotting Bellamy’s vision pop brightly then fizzle out and away.

“A transfusion.” Clarke sounds desperate, her voice unsteady, but the universe begins to creep in at the corners of Bellamy’s mind again when she speaks. “We’ll give him a blood transfusion.”

“We’re in the middle of the forest,” Jackson tries to explain. “All of our equipment for a blood transfusion is back at Arkadia. He won’t survive the trip-”

“Then we do it here.”

“Clarke, there’s nothing to-”

“So we figure something out!” Her tone is rising, becoming more heated, and she struggles to keep her voice calm and even. “We need Bellamy,” she says quieter, more firmly. “We do not survive without him. We will not let him die. Got it?”

There’s a rustle to Bellamy’s right as someone stands. Farther than he seemed before, Bellamy hears Jackson say “okay” with resignation.

Bellamy doesn’t blame him. Everything is cotton – Bellamy’s ears, his eyes, his mouth, his brain. He feels the life leaving his body more and more every second. He doubts anything they do now can save him, and they’re wasting valuable time trying to.

Though Clarke still remains his anchor, tethering him to the earth. Bellamy remembers everything she’s ever said to him, listening to her greatest hits on loop.

_That’s who you are._

_But I need you._

_You inspire them._

_I know we can fix this._

_I trust you._

_Thank you._

_Together._

Interrupting his litany of her deliverance, he imagines he hears Clarke whispering “There is no scenario in this story where I lose you.” He feels weightless. “I do not lose you.” All he sees is light, blinding white. “I can’t lose you, Bellamy.”

In the end, she still does.

 


	6. Belated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bellarke Fic were Bellamy finds out when Clarke's birthday is and makes her her a ring or bracelet or picks her a flower or something?? :) - cause she should still celebrate her birthday even if it's the apocalypse :) THANKYOU" -anonymous

Bellamy shouldn’t have expected to beat Clarke at pong. He saw her obliterate everyone at every alcohol fueled game during their time at the Dropship, but for some reason he still agreed to play against her tonight. He’s not bad, and she’s had to down a few of her own cups thanks to him, but Clarke has hardly missed a shot. Before he knows it, Bellamy is chugging his last cup in defeat.

“You know,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “seeing as I’m a member of the guard, the legal drinking age is twenty one, and you’re only seventeen, I could arrest you right now if I wanted to.”

With a roll of her eyes, Clarke aims the browned, bent ping pong ball they used to play at Bellamy’s head. “First of all, age restrictions stopped being enforced the day one hundred kids were sent to Earth without adult supervision,” Clarke reminds him. It’s not a written rule but Bellamy supposes it’s true. Age is obsolete when all that matters is survival. “Second,” Clarke continues, “I’m eighteen.”

“Still not of age,” counters Bellamy. He tosses the ping pong ball back to her.

“Must we revisit my first point?”

Clarke’s age has never been something Bellamy focused on. She’s wiser than the oldest Arkadian and more mature than most adults. If her youthful features didn’t play a factor in Bellamy’s perception of her, he would assume she’s the most ancient person on the planet. It’s easy to forget that in reality, the only reason Clarke is on Earth at all is because she was just a kid.

And now she’s not.

Age isn’t important on the ground, birthdays even less so, but people are important. Clarke is important. Especially to Bellamy.

How could he have possibly missed her _birthday_?

“Since when have you been eighteen?” Bellamy asks.

Clarke shrugs, walking over to the other end of the table to stand with him. “Since Mount Weather, I think. Could have been before that. The council forgot to supply us with calendars.”

“Typical.”

“Not that Priamfaya would spare me if I were still seventeen.”

“You’re literally turning a conversation about your birthday into a discussion about the end of the world.”

“My birthday was months ago, Bellamy.” Any humor Clarke wears slips from her face as she steps into his space. She stares him dead in the eyes when she says “the apocalypse is now.”

Trying for comfort, Bellamy slides his knuckles along the path between her elbow and shoulder. “You really know how to lighten the mood, Princess.”

Frowning, Clarke conks her head against his shoulder and rests it there. Into his sleeve she mumbles a halfhearted “shut up.”

While the topic of Armageddon is always buzzing throughout Arkadia, any mention of Clarke’s birthday is not after that night. Not that it should be. Like Clarke said, it was months ago. Bellamy, however, can’t seem to shake it from his brain.

He’ll have a meal that’s not gross and wish he’d had it for Clarke as a birthday dinner. The sweet berries he finds down by the river could be used for an excellent birthday pastry. The flowers growing along the Ark’s metal shell would be an extra sweet present.

Bellamy makes a list of these things, in case Clarke ever makes it to nineteen.

It doesn’t occur to him that he can still do something for her _now_ , months after her birthday, until he and Kane stop by Niylah’s trading post on their way to Polis.

The weather is shifting dramatically as the days go by, and though it was blistering hot when they left Arkadia two hours ago, it’s below freezing now. The Ark issued guard jackets are nothing against the biting winds and slushy rain they’re facing.

Kane has decided to invest in heavy furs to protect them against the cold. He goes through a pile at one end of Niylah’s store while Bellamy stands and broods at the other. He distracts himself from the memories this place brings by watching the chimes clang and ding with the violent wind, over and over. Old silverware crashes against jewelry crashes against wires and tubing and scrap.

Bellamy almost doesn’t recognize her dad’s watch amidst all the thrashing.

Its black band is frayed at the edges, its face cracked to the point where the hands are no longer visible. Though when Bellamy plucks it from the chime it hangs from and holds it to his ear, he can still hear the ancient ticking of time inside.

“Here’s your fur,” Kane says from behind him. He passes Bellamy a massive pelt, midnight black, the softest thing Bellamy’s fingers have ever touched. He melts just imagining how warm it will keep him in this brutal weather.

Bellamy offers Kane a grateful nod and regretful smile. The fur is extraordinary.

He knows he can’t keep it.

Without saying a word, Bellamy lifts the watch for Kane to see, It takes a moment for the other man to process before recognition dawns on his face, then understanding. “You do what you have to do,” he says.

So Bellamy trades his new warm fur for Jake Griffin’s old broken watch.

“Clarke never wanted to sell it,” Niylah tells him, sad eyes trained on the face cradled in his palm, “but she had nothing else to give.”

Bellamy doesn’t mind the subzero chill when the watch is clutched safely in his hand. Not even when his nose runs and his eyes water and he loses all feeling in his extremities. Not even when his lips turn blue or when he slips from consciousness outside Polis’ gates. Not even when he wakes up in med bay with no recollection of the last two days.

Selling his fur was still worth it.

Eyes fluttering open, Bellamy squints against the fluorescent lights bearing over him, turning his head to find Clarke sitting vigil at his bedside.

A hissed “I can’t _believe_ you,” is the first thing he hears. Clarke is struggling to glare at him through the relief swimming in her eyes. Her hands are gripping his vice like. “Kane told me what you did.”

Bellamy blinks, trying to remember how exactly he wound up this way.

“You traded your fur,” Clarke reminds him, “for a watch that doesn’t even work.”

“Didn’t need a fur,” Bellamy mumbles. “There was a nice breeze.”

“Bellamy, it wasn’t a breeze. You almost _died of hypothermia_.”

He looks down at their hands, both of her own still wrapped tightly around his. On her right wrist is the watch, tattered and shattered but there, on her, where it belongs.

He taps its face with his free hand. “Happy birthday.”

A frustrated huff escapes her, at war with the smile fighting to curl at the corners of her lips. “Bellamy...”

“You’re welcome.”

A tear spills from her eye and lands on Bellamy’s thumb. He releases her hands to swipe it across her cheekbone, brushing the moisture away. His heart aches, the way it always does when she cries, except this time the ache is sweet. This time, she’s smiling too.

“Thank you,” Clarke whispers, voice so small he can barely hear her, “but this watch wouldn’t have meant anything if I lost you.”

Not for the first time, she leaves Bellamy speechless.

With every word spoken, every action taken, Clarke has made it explicitly clear how much Bellamy means to her in the last few weeks. He knows he’s not her foot soldier or some means to an end. He knows they’re equals, on every level, and partners in everything they do. Together they’re leaders, confidantes, best friends, possibly...more. Whatever they are, they need each other. It’s the only thing he’s certain of.

So maybe the watch wasn’t worth his life. But seeing the light shine in Clarke’s eyes, Bellamy doesn’t regret a thing.

“Yeah.” Emotion wells in his chest and he clears his throat before speaking. “I’ll try not to die the next time I go birthday shopping for you.”

Clarke scoffs, but she’s grinning stupidly when she leans her head on his side, and her watch clad hand over his heart. Bellamy clasps it, holding her close.

“Don’t even bother trying,” says Clarke. “I already have everything I need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me @bllrke on Tumblr!


	7. Hello Love, My Invincible Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey :) Maybe a Bellarke Fic were something dramatic has just happened and they go back to their room and suddenly everything is silent and calm and they clean each other's wounds? Maybe in cannonverse ? Your blog is amazing and you are a blessing thank you

On her forehead there’s a slash from which blood trickles in a steady flow into Clarke’s eye. She feels a bruise blossoming across her cheekbone. Her head pounds in her temples and between her brows, a sharp ache that rears its ugly head with each second that passes.

But Clarke has jumped hundreds of feet into violent waters. She’s opened her own stitches and slit her skin to cut deals. She wrestled a damn jaguar and survived.

She’s dealt with worse.

Bellamy has too, but that doesn’t quell the fear bubbling in Clarke’s gut like a waking volcano when she looks at him now.

His jacket is thrown onto the bed, leaving him with only his t-shirt to veil the gash sliced along his bicep. Blood drips in a curtain down his arm, staining the fabric of his shirt and falling in thick drops to the floor. With his opposite hand, Bellamy tries rolling up his sleeve to get a better look at the damage. When he fumbles, frustrated, Clarke crosses the room to help him.

It’s the first time since Trikru attacked them on their way to Becca’s lab that Clarke has seen the injury, and when she does, she can’t help the shallow breath she sucks in. Bellamy tenses. Clarke knows the blood makes it look worse than it actually is, but even so, she can tell slapping a band aid on this one won’t fix it.

Over the lump in her throat, she says “I need to clean this,” and hurries to the attached bathroom to wet a cloth. “And stitch it.” She grabs her first aid kit from their traveling bag. “And probably amputate it.”

“ _What_?”

“I’m joking.” Clarke quirks the corner of her lip in a tight smile, tilting her head towards the bed so he can sit. “I was trying to make you feel better.”

“Yeah, well, your bedside manner is a little morbid,” Bellamy tells her, but his eyes soften just a little and he offers her a small smile of his own when he sits on the mattress.

Clarke takes the seat beside him, reaching forward with the cloth to wipe away his blood. Bellamy takes it from her before she can, however. Confused, she watches him as he lifts it to her face instead. He swipes it over her eye, caked closed with her own blood, then over her eyebrow and the skin around her cut, and then finally, gently, over the cut itself.

Clarke’s heart flutters wildly with roaring affection. Her headache, though, worsens with her frustration towards him. “You’re _bleeding_ , Bellamy,” she reminds him. Unsuccessfully, she tries tugging the cloth from his grip.

“So are you,” he counters, “and I’m not having you sew my skin shut with an open head wound and one functioning eye.”

Clarke opens her mouth to argue but he’s right. She only wishes he would let her put him first for once.

They remain silent as Bellamy continues passing the cloth over her skin, cleaning the bloody area before hesitantly, softly, moving it to the other side of her face. Under his ministrations, Clarke lets her eyes fall shut. She savors the moment, his touch, with her breath growing heavy and her chest threatening to burst open.

They so rarely allow themselves this intimacy; to take care of each other, comfort one another, _feel_ in such a physical way. When they do, they’re shining light on something they usually keep hidden: that Clarke would sacrifice fifty of her people for fifty of Roan’s to keep Bellamy alive, would drop a bomb on innocents to keep him safe, and that Bellamy would cross an entire army of bloodthirsty warriors to rescue her, would do _anything_ for her, to protect her, because it just makes sense; that somewhere along the line, keeping their people alive became their second priority because their first is now wholly, tragically each other.

Clarke feels Bellamy gently press steristrips across her cut, stroking his thumb across them, then light as air across her bruised cheek. “Okay,” he says, breathless. Clarke’s eyes flutter open when she feels his weight leave the bed. He disposes of the washcloth and returns with a fresh one, handing it to her before he sits down again. “Now you can patch me up.”

Shaking her head, Clarke begins her work. She takes her time, running her hands along his arms even when most of the blood is wiped away, pretending to clean his fingers as an excuse to tangle them with hers, lightly tracing the vein traveling from his wrist to his elbow. It takes longer than necessary to begin stitching him up, and she knows he knows it.

The sensation of needle through skin is nothing new to Bellamy, so when Clarke hears him inhale shakily at the first thread, her eyes dart to his, afraid she’s hurt him. Pain isn’t what she finds reflected back at her, though. Instead, she sees his eyes wide and blown and filled with every emotion Clarke feels bubbling out of her. Moisture gathers at the edge of his vision. His mouth flounders, struggling to find words.

“I thought you were gone,” he admits. His voice is less gravelly, softer, quieter. A tear spills from his eye, speeding down his face so quickly Clarke doesn’t have time to brush it from his skin before it falls onto her lap. “When that grounder bashed your head against the dashboard of the rover and knocked you out, and your nose started bleeding, I thought-” Bellamy cuts himself off, face crinkling, glaring at a point over Clarke’s head. Roughly, he swipes his forearm under his nose. “You could have been killed and I wasn’t quick enough to stop it.”

“Bellamy...” Clarke abandons her suturing to take his face between her hands, directing his attention back to her. “It’s gonna take more than a bump on the head to kill me.”

“I’m serious, Clarke.”

“I am too. I’m okay, Bellamy.”

He shakes his head, still held firmly in Clarke’s hands. “That’s not the point,” he says. “If Roan wasn’t there to save you – I should have been there too and-”

“No.” Clarke’s hands fall to the back of Bellamy’s neck, pulling him infinitesimally closer. “If you were there and they hurt you any more than they already did...” Her eyes flicker to his arm, where blood is still blooming from the wound, already trickling down again.

Her heart twists tight in her chest at the thought of something happening to Bellamy, of him being hurt beyond repair, fatally, especially for _her_. Even more so, Clarke aches at the thought of a world without Bellamy Blake in it; how every lush tree would feel barren to her without him, how a clear sky may as well cloud over for eternity. It’s dirt beneath her feet and stars above her head and trees as far as the eye can see, but it would all be nothing without him there to share it with her.

Bellamy isn’t Clarke’s world, but he is what keeps it turning. On his axis she spins, for better or worse.

She drags her eyes back to his, tears pooling along their rims. “I can’t – Bellamy, I can’t lose-”

“I can’t either.” Raising his good arm, Bellamy cups her cheek, swiping away her tears. Delicately, as if the moment will break if he handles it too roughly, he leans his forehead against hers. “I can’t lose you either.”

Clarke can’t determine how long they stay that way, pressed together, sharing the same air. It’s both forever and too short at once.

“I can’t do this without you,” she confesses.

Bellamy shivers as the words vibrate in the small space between them. With a shake of his head, he slips his hand behind her head, changing their angle so he can brush his lips across her bruised cheek. “You can do anything, Clarke.” He lifts his head to press a kiss to the crown of her hair. “With or without me.”

Reluctantly, Clarke pulls away, a sad smile teasing the corners of her lips. “You can too.”

Bellamy ducks his head. Clarke knows he doesn’t believe her. Still, when he looks back up at her, he’s smiling too. “I can’t stitch my arm up,” he jokes.

Like a switch flipped on, the heaviness surrounding them clears, replaced with a familiar levity that is born from trying to make the other happy. It’s fragile and fleeting, but it reminds them, if only for a moment, why losing one another would make the world bleak – because, for each other, they make it brilliant.

They shine a light.


	8. won't you settle down baby (here your love has been)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> seccasaurus said: Bellamy’s going on another deadly mission tomorrow. Clarke/Bellamy are trying not to freak out about it because they don’t want the other to see them faltering.

Reminding herself that Bellamy has done this before doesn’t ease Clarke’s mind. Black rain is black rain, and walking through it, wearing a hazmat suit or not, is dangerous. And naturally, despite the current storm expected to persist for another two days, Bellamy insists on beginning his search for the missing hunting party _tomorrow_. Not a day later.

It’s a terrible idea. The odds of the hunting party having survived are so slim they’re nonexistent. If they didn’t immediately find shelter when the rain first fell, they’re dead. If they somehow _did_ find shelter, they’ll either starve to death or die of exposure before anyone reaches them. On the off chance neither of those things have happened or are going to happen, then the hunting party is fine, and they can make their way back to Arkadia safe, healthy, and on their own when the storm passes.

There is absolutely no logical reason for Bellamy to go out there and rescue them.

“I can help them, Clarke.” He’s stuffing his backpack with enough rations for five people, the number of hunters missing. Not a single ration for himself.

“You could help them if there were anyone _left_ to help,” Clarke tells him. Stubbornly, she folds her arms across her chest. “The chances of them being alive-”

“Are low. I know. You’ve told me a thousand times.”

Jaw clenched and brows raised expectantly, Bellamy steps away from his pack and holds his hand out to Clarke. When she only stares at it coolly, unmoving, Bellamy expels a frustrated sigh. “The med kit, Clarke,” he reminds her, jerking his hand forward.

Grudgingly, she fishes it out of her own backpack and shoves it at him.

He rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”

“If they’re burned from the rain then nothing in that kit is going to help them,” says Clarke.

“And if they need stitches,” Bellamy brandishes the kit in the air, “it will.”

Frustration bubbles deep within Clarke’s chest, growing and rising until she feels as though she’s going to vomit her feelings all over Bellamy’s quarters. Nothing she can say will stop him from leaving. Except maybe –

“Let me go with you.” The words escape her before she knows what she’s saying. Once they’re out though, Clarke knows she’s found her in. “You need a medic, I’m a medic. And you shouldn’t be going alone.”

Bellamy is shaking his head before she even finishes speaking. “No, Clarke. You’re the _only_ medic. That’s why you came back from Becca’s Island in the first place. They need you _here_.”

“They managed without me for a week, they can live without me for a day or two.”

“Clarke, stop.”

“No, Bellamy. I don’t take orders from you. You need me and I’m going.”

“It’s not an order, Clarke! Dammit, it’s not-” He scrubs a hand down his face, muscle jumping sharply in his jaw. When he looks back at her, he’s struggling to reign in the emotions flitting across his face: frustration, desperation, fear… the _love_ for each other that they both try so desperately not to use as a weapon. They’re the same feelings Clarke knows she’s reflecting at him too. “You know I have to try, Clarke. And you know I won’t go if it means you’re also putting your life on the line.” He stares at her, waiting for her to contradict him. She doesn’t. “Please don’t do this.”

Tears prickle at the corners of Clarke’s eyes, and angrily, she swipes them away. Her eyes fall to the floor, dejected. She senses Bellamy’s presence as he draws nearer to her, and Clarke lets the tears fall freely when he takes her face in his hands, so gently her breath catches, and lifts her gaze to his.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Clarke confesses.

Bellamy smiles at her, trying for comfort, and rubs circles along her cheekbones where he holds her in his palms. “Oh, is that the real reason you don’t want me to go? Not because it’s pointless?” he teases.

Balling her fists against his chest, Clarke scowls at him, angry tears still spilling down her face. “It’s _another_ reason, yes.”

“Clarke…” He stares down at her, eyes pleading for her to let this go, to let _him_ go, to understand. “If there’s a chance, no matter how small, that I can save them-”

“Then you have to try,” Clarke finishes. She nods and tries her hardest to smile at him though her face puckers with tears still unshed. She burrows herself into Bellamy’s neck. “I know,” she mumbles against his skin.

Wrapping his arms around her, Bellamy holds her close, taking comfort in the steady rise and fall of her chest as Clarke breathes against him.

“I’ll come back.” He buries his promise in the waves of her hair. “I’ll come home.”

And he does – two days later with the hunting party a little burned, a lot starving, but alive. Clarke would feel ashamed for being wrong about their chances of survival if she weren’t so relieved to see Bellamy at the gates of Arkadia, making his way into her waiting arms.

Home.


	9. Nah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can't be in here" bellarke thank you!!

After they put up cabins but before they build anything else, their new hodgepodge civilization erects the chapel. It’s nothing but an alter and pews and a room for storage in the back, but for the remnants of humanity, it’s more. It’s their standing beacon of hope and faith and love, and it’s a symbol of the community they’ve created from the dust of the stars and the dirt on the ground.

And the first people to get married in it are Bellamy and Clarke.

Clarke is in the storage room, Madi weaving flowers into her waves before the ceremony, when the door creaks open behind them. Bellamy leans against the frame, hair a messy halo of curls around his head, hands dug into the pockets of his jeans, smiling at them.

“You can’t be in here,” Madi tells him. She abandons her braiding to place a hand on her hip, haughty, but she’s smiling. “You’re not supposed to see your partner before the wedding.”  
“It’s okay, Madi” Clarke tells her. “We’ve never been much for tradition anyway.”

“It’s a miracle we’re even having a wedding,” Bellamy adds. He steps into the room and ruffles Madi’s hair. “On the Ark we’d just be signing our names on a tablet.”

Clarke snorts. “On the Ark we probably never would have met,” she muses.

The corners of Bellamy’s lips tug into a small smile. His eyes are sad, but they’re happy too, and in them Clarke can see the story of their life together and of all that’s left to come reflecting at her.   
And she can see love too. The kind time nor space can take from them.

“Nah.” Gently, Bellamy tucks a lock of hair behind Clarke’s ear. “We would have found each other.”

Like she’s heard it a thousand times before, Madi rolls her eyes, shooing Bellamy’s hands away to continue her braiding of Clarke’s hair. “Yeah, yeah. You always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow the title of this collection has become depressingly appropriate bye


	10. Bite Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'I don't bite-' 'I do'" Bellarke. Ya know where that person starts to try to hit on one of them, but the other swoops in all dramatic.

Clarke isn’t jealous of Roma. She hardly notices her willowy limbs and sultry eyes and the sway of her hips when she saunters towards Bellamy. The only reason Clarke is staring daggers at her is because Bellamy is her friend, kind of, and he’s trying to work like Roma _should_ be, but instead she’s draping herself all over his body and disrupting him.

Clarke isn’t jealous.

And she isn’t slightly pleased when, disgruntled, Bellamy gently nudges Roma away.

Clarke barely notices herself inching closer to them.

“I’m busy, Roma,” Bellamy growls.

Clarke is close enough to hear Roma’s low laughter in his ear. “C’mooon, Bellamy,” she drawls. “I don’t bite.”

“I do,” Clarke announces. She delights in the curl of Roma’s lip when she and Bellamy spin around to look at her. Her stomach does _not_ swoop when Bellamy ducks his head to hide his smile. “And so did the boar you’re supposed to be skinning.”

Rolling her eyes, Roma slinks away, throwing a grumbled “later” over her shoulder.

Once she’s out of sight, Bellamy bumps his hip against Clarke’s. “No need to bite anyone for me, Princess. Your bark does the job just fine.”


End file.
